


rst

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-03
Updated: 2017-03-03
Packaged: 2018-09-28 01:18:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10061423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Wesley worries over his new captaincy, but his new first officer is plenty welcoming.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for ladystark428’s “I absolutely adore your Wesley/Riker fics on AO3. Wouldn't mind more of those” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/157932623205/i-absolutely-adore-your-wesleyriker-fics-on-ao3). I couldn’t decide if I wanted them to know each other before this new circumstance or not, so I left it to be read either way...
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The bridge is quiet, efficient, and all together _comfortable_ , even though he’s had the big chair for no more than two weeks. He thought it would be harder than this. When he pictured it in his head, both in the Academy and serving on the _Stargazer_ , he always assumed there’d be more looks of disapproval. He thought the ensigns wouldn’t take him seriously, the lieutenants would snicker behind his back, the commanders would sneer to his face and suggest the _adults_ handle things.

Wesley Crusher has been a legal adult for seven years, but that still makes him the youngest Starfleet captain in history by a long shot. He’s the youngest person _on the bridge_. Every time information pops up on the sensors, Wesley half expects Commander Data to relay it to his first officer instead of him. 

But Data reports, “The _Intrepid_ has left sensor range on schedule, Captain,” without a hint of trouble in his even tones. Granted, he’s an android, but the rest of the _Enterprise_ crew has proven equally as miraculously accepting. The mysterious bartender has informed him that they’ve seen a lot stranger things in their run through the stars, even, through inconceivable circumstance, the temporary de-aging of their former captain. But now-Admiral Picard _started_ at a normal age, and the more their exceedingly dull star-charting first mission drags on, the more Wesley reminds himself of it.

He thinks, at least, that he’s done an adequate job of hiding his worry, until Commander Riker leans over his armrest to whisper, “Something eating you, Wes?”

Wesley immediately regrets giving Riker permission to call him that, especially on the bridge, even so quietly. 

He answers by jerking swiftly to his feet, uncomfortably adjusting his red-black uniform around his middle, and announcing, “My ready room, Commander.” Riker nods and rises with more grace—but he has a special way of getting in and out of chairs that always makes Wesley blush and have to look away. Their walk across the bridge is silent, the doors smoothly sliding shut right behind them. 

Wesley walks towards his desk, finds he isn’t quite ready for that formality, and turns in front of it to face his first officer. He remembers the butterflies in his stomach when he first realized it would be Will. But it still feels _bizarre_ to have Riker _under_ his command.

Riker quirks an easy smile and lifts a brow, inviting Wesley to go first. 

So Wesley sucks in a breath and asks, as steadily as he can, “In your professional opinion, Commander... how is the crew adjusting to the new structure?”

Riker dimples his cheeks and answers in a charmingly clueless but doubtlessly feigned sort of way, “I’m not sure what you mean, Sir.”

Wesley bluntly elaborates: “How do they respond to serving under the youngest captain in Starfleet?”

“Well,” Riker muses, drawing out the syllables and crossing his arms over his broad chest, “probably better than the crew with the first Gorn captain responds to serving under the scaliest captain in Starfleet.”

Wesley resists the urge to roll his eyes because he’s not a cadet anymore, despite what most seem to think of him. He tells himself that it’s a good sign, at least, that Riker clearly thinks the ‘issue’ so trivial. He clears his throat and tries again, more intimately, “How do _you_ respond to it?” His first officer, his right hand, _William Riker_ , holds the opinion that means the most to him. Riker’s eyes shine with the knowledge of that. Wesley finds them frustratingly captivating. 

Riker takes a casual step closer, arms still loosely crossed, and he answers in his deep purr of a voice, “Well... I admit I may have been a bit surprised at first.” Another step, and he’s less than an arm’s length away; Wesley’s chest tightens. “Maybe even a little annoyed. A bit tense.” Another step, and the toes of his boots are nudging Wesley’s. He’s taller, bigger, _stronger_ , and it seems to Wesley so clear that _this man_ should be the captain; for all of Wesley’s book smarts and prodigal theories, Riker’s the one with _experience_ , with _presence_ , with a radiant smile that sucks Wesley in. He finishes smoothly, “But then I realized how cute that captain was, and now it’s a different sort of... tension.”

 _Cute_. Wesley can feel his cheeks heating. They would’ve anyway from sheer proximity. He can smell Riker’s cologne, and he wants to lick it right off Riker’s bare skin in the low light of their quarters, maybe a romantic beach on the holodeck, with Riker laid out in nothing but a—

Wesley sucks in a breath, fights back his ridiculous smile, and presses: “And what about now?”

“I suppose that depends on whether or not my new captain plans on resolving that tension.”

Wesley digs his fingers into his palm in an attempt to calm himself. Technically, he’s still on duty. Of course, it’s _his_ ship, and duty’s at his fingertips...

He thinks of being professional but teases anyway, “Are you just angling for a promotion?”

Riker grins all the wider and counters, “Is there a position higher than my captain’s first?”

Wesley’s head spins. He’s sure there’s a perfect response—something about whether or not Riker wants to be higher than him, wants to _top him_ , but his supposedly genius brain has gone straight to mush, and then Riker’s arm is looping so easily around his waist, and it seems like the most natural thing in the world to be bent back over his desk—Riker flattens into him, body to body, presses them together right through their uniforms, and brushes his lips over Wesley’s. 

Whatever control Wesley had snaps into a million pieces, and he lunges at Riker with all the fervor of his youth, hands darting into Riker’s hair and tongue shoving into Riker’s mouth. He kisses with lust and ardor and the pent up _want_ of too long, and Riker kisses him back with expert experience, until Wesley’s knees are feeling too weak to hold him up.

He slumps against the desk as Riker withdraws, asking slickly, “Does that answer your question?”

For Riker, maybe. So much for keeping things professional. Wesley gives himself a minute to recover, then answers, “I hope that’s not how the whole crew feels.”

Riker laughs. Wesley wonders if he’s always this appealing, or if Wesley himself has just been flirting as much as he feared. He’s sure he was swooning since the second he slipped into the big chair and found Riker at his side. 

Riker suggests, “Maybe we should discuss this off duty.” 

“Over drinks in Ten Forward,” Wesley adds before he can stop himself. He subconsciously straightens out his uniform again. He does have a bridge to run—he’s glad Riker, at least, has more self-control than him. ...Even if Riker did start it.

Riker nods and turns halfway to the door, gesturing for Wesley to go first, and replies with a wink, “I’m at your disposal anytime... Captain.”


End file.
